Becoming Her Mother

The day I found out I had a girl,
the world shifted.

Suddenly every scar I carried
felt like a map
I didn’t want her to follow.
Every lesson I learned the hard way
became a prayer—
whispered for her
to never have to repeat.

Having a girl means holding the mirror twice:
once to see yourself,
and once to imagine who she’ll become.
It means relearning softness,
teaching strength,
and realizing she’s watching you
closer than she’s listening
to what you say.

I look at her tiny hands
and think about all they’ll have to hold—
dreams, heartbreak, choices,
a thousand tiny versions of herself.

And I want to teach her
that she doesn’t have to shrink to be loved,
that her “no” is a full sentence,
that her worth will never be measured
by who stays
or who leaves.

Having a girl is terrifying and holy.
It makes me want to guard the world
with my bare hands—
and also set it on fire
so she can walk through
without burning.

Maybe my job isn’t to protect her
from everything.
Maybe my job is to stand beside her,
to hand her the tools I never had,
to remind her
that she already carries
everything she needs
inside of her.

And one day, when she’s grown,
I hope she looks back at me
and sees not a perfect parent,
but a flawed human
who tried her best
to show a little girl
how to grow into herself—
without apology.